


Cold Dark Sea

by thekingofcarrotflowers



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hope, Hurt, Loss of Identity, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rite of Tranquility, Tears, Torture, Trying to Stay as True to Everything As Possible While Throwing My Own Take on Things In
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-02 07:27:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 16,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4051486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thekingofcarrotflowers/pseuds/thekingofcarrotflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Dorian is turned Tranquil and Iron Bull has to deal with the loss of his lover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Giants and Red Templars

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, look! Yet another multi-chapter Adoribull fanfic I'm working on when others need updating! I have a handful of chapters done already, which is why I decided to go ahead and start uploading this one so I can post something here and there.

“I hate all of this wilderness, and the animals, and the Templars,” Dorian grumbled after tripping on an exposed tree root. He had stumbled face-first into Bull’s back, barely making the large man move, and felt utterly foolish.

  
“Anything you _do_ like?” teased Bull, the mage had been complaining to the party ever since they set foot out of Skyhold for the Emerald Graves. Bull was sure Dorian touched on every subject on this trip, from the blighted cold to his cohorts horrible fashion choices. Bull smiled adoringly at him, and thought back to a time when all of Dorian’s complaints got under his skin, made the long journeys with the Inquisition somewhat tedious when Dorian was constantly pointing out all the worst around them. Now, it brought a strange warmth to him, knowing how to turn Dorian’s huffy complaints to smiles and laughter.

  
Dorian snorted, smirking slightly, “I can think of a few things.” His gaze trailed over Bull, and the Bull’s smile grew to a pleased grin. His large hand brushed Dorian’s bare shoulder, and Dorian’s eyes grew temptingly lidded. There was a time that this didn’t happen, that Dorian would push Bull away, storm ahead while swearing at him in Tevene. It still might happen occasionally, but Dorian felt _safe_ in the present company, able to be himself. That, above all things, made Bull’s heart soar.

  
“Ugh, get a room,” Sera groaned, pushing past the pair to walk ahead with the Inquisitor. Their leader glanced back at them and gave a fond shake of their head.  
They continued onward, Dorian walking close next to the Bull. At times, their arms would brush, and Dorian would flash the Bull a smile. Bull’s mind filled with things that he could do to Dorian later, after their day’s work was over — pressing together in the privacy of their shared tent, or pressing Dorian against a tree, or pressing Dorian into the hillside—

  
“Y’feel that?” Bull said suddenly, pulled quickly from his thoughts as he felt a tremor beneath his feet. They all slowed, listening and trying to sense what Bull did. They recognized the edge to his voice, alerting them of some approaching danger. Bull breathed in deep, smelling the air, and was sure of what he was sensing, “Giant up ahead.”  
“Wonderful,” Dorian muttered, pulling his staff from its spot on his back.

  
The Inquisitor nodded at Bull, “Better clear them out, then?” They’d heard some brief account of giants in the northern section of the Graves, of the threat they posed when the refugees tried to get supplies.

  
Bull flashed a big grin, “You got it, Boss.” The idea of fighting a giant was alway exhilarating — not as much as dragon slaying, but few things were as large or as dangerous as giants. They posed a special kind of challenge, something you couldn’t get from the average Freeman or Templar, and that set Bull’s heart thundering with excitement. He could hear Dorian grumbling about giants next to him, but he knew that at heart, Dorian enjoyed a challenge as much as the warrior.

  
“Sera, go scope it out, huh?” the Inquisitor nodded ahead, drawing their weapon.

  
“Got it,” Sera nodded, nimbly ascending a tree to find a perch that revealed the layout of the valley beyond the hilltop. She was gone a few moments, the others waiting impatiently; Dorian was tapping his foot, arms crossed.

  
“Hey, big guy,” Bull addressed him, grinning down at him. Dorian shot him a glare, “It’ll be fun.”

  
Dorian rolled his eyes dramatically, but the lopsided grin Bull gave him was contagious. A smile of his own tugged at the corner of his lips before long, and he made to smooth out his mustache in an attempt to hide it.

  
“One ugly git up ahead,” Sera confirmed, jumping down next to the Inquisitor, “Jus’ minding his own business, right now. Good time to get a jump on him, yeah?”

  
“Dorian and Sera, get into position. Bull and I will be ready to go ahead,” the Herald nodded, setting her party into action.

  
Dorian carefully made his way forward, finding a clear spot at the crest of the hill to cast from. As he drew closer, the unmistakable stench of giant wafted up, and he gave a soft groan of disgust. There was enough room where he perched that he didn’t have to worry about catching anything on fire while casting. The giant was lumbering back and forth, appearing to be somewhat agitated by … _something_. Dorian quickly scanned the valley, spotting nothing else worth note, and figured that the giant had missed catching his last meal of halla. He watched Sera clamper back up a tree, readying her arrow.

  
“Whenever you’re ready,” the Inquisitor called from somewhere behind, and Dorian knew they were ready for battle, Bull bristling with pent-up energy from wandering through the forest without a confrontation for so long. It made Dorian smile, thinking of Bull’s shoulders tensing as he held up his ax, a dark smile on his face as he prepared to battle, a dangerous gleam in his eye. A shiver ran through Dorian, and he made note to remember that later, in their tent.

  
There was the swoosh of Sera firing an arrow, and Dorian whirled his staff through the air, sending a pillar of flame to spring up beneath the giant’s feet. The arrow sunk into the giant’s fleshy face, close to its eye. It bellowed, stumbling backwards away from the flame.  The fire increased the stench rising from the giant, adding burning flesh and hair to the odor. Then, Bull and the Inquisitor were springing over the hilltop, rushing towards the giant. Bull let out a whoop of excitement, ax over his shoulder as he readied for a swing. Dorian flicked his wrist in their direction, barriers washing over the pair before they were even within the giant’s reach.

  
Bull’s ax buried deep into the giant’s calf, making the creature yell out again. It swatted at Bull, who moved away with more agility than Dorian once thought a man of his size could have. The Inquisitor hurried in, blades sinking into the other leg, making the giant teeter. Sera fired volley after volley of arrows, burrowing into the fleshier parts of the giant. Some of them were swatted away by a huge, callous hand, pinging harmlessly off the skin there. A steady stream of ice spells meant to slow and fire spells meant to harm buzzed across the battlefield from Dorian. They’d fought enough giants to know exactly how to approach fighting this one, and Dorian thought they would make short work of the creature.

  
“Watch it! Templars!” Sera shouted across the valley, her attention turning from the giant to a group of warriors appearing through the trees to their left. Dorian swore loudly as he counted their foe, numbering at least a dozen, plus the unmistakable gleam of red flickering in the darkness of the woods. He directed his magic at the Red Templars, hoping he and Sera could pick them off before they reached the others.

  
The weaker, more-exposed Templars fell easily. Sera skewered those hidden among the trees, while Dorian encased Templars in ice, shattering them into bloody messes with blasts of energy. He could hear the Bull and the giant still roaring at each other, feel the vibrations of massive fists and feet hitting the dirt. It seemed as if more Templars kept taking their fallen comrades’ places, and Dorian wondered if they had been planned on catching their party off-guard like this.

  
“Dorian!” the Bull called out, and the mage looked over to him in time to see a boulder hurtling in his direction. He stumbled forward in a flurry, washing a barrier over himself in the same moment, and gracelessly skidded down the hill. He stumbled at the bottom, twisting his ankle and using his staff to prop himself up.

  
“Fuck,” Bull breathed, watching Dorian take a shaky step back, even as the ‘Vint sent a wall of fire blazing up around him. With the giant swinging relentlessly at the Inquisitor and hurtling stray rocks in its rage, Bull couldn’t turn away from the battle with the creature to protect Dorian. He looked away from Dorian, knowing his lover was more than capable of burning down a dozen Templars with ease, yet worry still balled in his stomach.

  
With a yell, Dorian threw out his hands and his flames burned higher, catching a number of Templars in its wake. Sera focused her attention on the Templars swarming before Dorian as the mage retreated unsteadily, never turning his back on the warriors.

  
“Another giant!” Sera shrilled, her voice sounding panicky and uneven. All their eyes whirled to the giant crashing through the woods, even the Templars stilling for a moment to gape. Their loud fighting had most likely alerted the giant, who hurried in for a tasty meal, and the Inquisition’s party was flanked on three sides now.

  
“We need to retreat!” Dorian cried out, knowing that this could, most likely _would_ , go sour quickly. He chanced a glance back at the arriving giant and over his comrades. Bull and the Herald both sported an array of wounds, from close-calls with the giant, a few straw arrows, and a few of the more daring Templars.

  
A Smite hit Dorian full on, a Templar taking advantage of his distraction. The bright red light was blinding, the force knocking the air from his lungs. He stumbled, mind going frustratingly blank as he did so. Mana was sapped from his veins, the sudden emptiness a dull ache that thumped through him. There was noise all around him, distant and chaotic, but he couldn’t focus on it. He fell forward, barely catching himself on his forearms before hitting the ground face-first.

  
By the time he thought to call out for help, it was too late. Someone had him by the hair, yanking him roughly to his feet. Vision still distorted, red starburts flashing across his eyes, he didn’t have the drive to do anything. Distantly, he could hear Sera cry out:

  
“They’ve got Dorian!”

  
There was an answering roar of rage from Bull as Dorian’s world went off-kilter. Rough hands hoisted him upwards, slinging him over someone’s shoulder. Red armor bit into his sides, clawed hands digging into his legs where they still held him. The sense to fight back came back to him, and he began to struggle weakly against their iron grip, before something crashed against his head and it all went black.


	2. Bloodlust and Loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bull makes a decision.

Sera’s frantic voice carried to the Bull as he tried to block a spray of rocks cutting through the air from a boulder that crashed down at his feet. He looked to her for a moment, concerned, before the words made sense past the blood thundering in his ears and the giant’s pained screams:

  
“They’ve got Dorian!”

  
His head whipped around in time to see a Red Knight hoist a weakly flailing Dorian onto his shoulder. For a moment, he wondered why Dorian wasn’t doing more, why he wasn’t casting, and the realization that the mage must have been hit by a Smite was crippling. Bull began to scramble in Dorian’s direction, his feet slipping on blood and muck from the fight. He let out a bellow of pain and rage. One of the Templars swung the hilt of a sword, hitting it hard against Dorian’s skull, and the man went limp.

  
“Dorian!” Bull bellowed, going into a full-charge with little disregard for anything else but getting to Dorian.

  
A number of Red Templars hurried into Bull’s path, slowing him down. He swung at them, crashing through them, ignoring their biting blades and shards of lyrium that ripped at his body. The Knight holding Dorian began to hurriedly retreat, weaving between trees, becoming a distant flash of red amongst all the green. Sera’s arrows followed the man, carefully aimed at the Knight to avoid injuring Dorian. Most of the arrows sunk into the trees, one skimming the armor before sinking uselessly into the dirt. Then, the man was gone.

  
A different kind of red filled Bull’s vision, blood rushing in his ears, thoughts filled with death and destruction, of crushing anything that stood in his way of reaching Dorian. He let himself be consumed by hate, nothing feeling as important as destroying the Templars before him, as important as getting Dorian safely back into his arms. His ax sliced relentlessly, severing limbs and heads from their bodies, spraying blood and innards. Bull bellowed, headbutting into one Templar as he cleaved through another’s armor. He sunk his ax into a Guard’s face, and he ripped a limb from a Horror’s form. It was all a wave of red, of blood and rage and pain, and Bull was lost in it.

  
“Bull!” the Herald cried out, stumbling away from the second giant as it rushed towards them, “Bull, snap out of it! We have to … we have to get out of here!” Their voice was frantic, wavering with fear and desperation. He ignored the Inquisitor, turning away to catch the blade of another attacking Templar, to lift him off the ground in a fluid movement and throw him into a tree with a satisfying cracking of bones and crystals. The remaining Templars were quickly retreating out of Bull’s reach, retreating in the direction that the Knight had taken Dorian. He dashed forward to dive into the woods behind them, almost forgetting about his friends behind him until Sera let out a panicked yelp.

  
It took a moment for the scream to register. The Iron Bull forced himself to turn, to turn away from Dorian and the possibility for a quick rescue, to help Sera. The elf had toppled from her spot in the tree and was now scrambling backwards away from the reach of one of the giants. The Herald had turned back towards their archer as well, gathering the last of their strength to push forward.

  
Taking a deep, steadying breath, Bull took another step towards Sera, then another, until he broke into a full charge again. He couldn’t lose someone else, couldn’t fail the Inquisition. Although his heart was with Dorian, was breaking into a million pieces at letting the mage slip further and further away from him, he couldn’t turn his back on the others. He’d pledged himself full-heartedly to the Inquisition, said that no matter what happened, this was where he wanted to be. He’d realized then that it could mean losing everything — losing who he once was, losing his men, losing Dorian. He just hadn’t realized how hard that could be…

  
The Bull surged past the Inquisitor, leapt through the air to sink his ax deep into the giant’s back just as it grabbed hold of Sera’s boot. Bull gritted his teeth, holding on as the giant roared and turned violently. Pressing his soles against the giant’s hulk, he ripped his ax free. All the rage and the loss and the hatred at himself for failing Dorian was funneled into this, into keeping his friends safe, into smearing the giants across the earth. He fought with a renewed vigor, not letting the red consume him this time, but letting it flow through him and  allow him to swing harder, leap farther, bellow louder. Gripping a oozing wound in their side, the Herald hurried to Sera’s aid, quickly checking her over. The pair watched from the tree line, knowing not to get into the Bull’s way when he was in this state, letting him cover the ground in giant blood and bits.

  
Bull finally felled the first giant, who was near-death as it was, the creature toppling over as blood oozed steadily from the fatal blow. The ground shook when it crashed down. Then, Bull was lashing out at the second giant again, hacking at one of it’s tree-trunk legs until the beast stumbled to its knees. Bull raised his weapon high, bringing it down on the giant’s head with the sound of crunching bone and splattering blood that they all had grown too-familiar with over the last few months. There was one last dying tremor from the giant before it grew still at Bull’s feet.

  
The ax burrowed deep into the giant’s skull was forgotten there as Bull struggled to catch his breath, struggle to keep down the bile he felt rising in the back of his throat. His shoulders heaved with exertion from the battle and the rising panic in his chest. His mind buzzed with worries, wondering if Dorian was even still alive, wondering what the Templars planned on doing with him if he was. There was so many things they could do, some worse than death, and it made his skin crawl.

  
Quickly, he cast his eye around, realizing they were in no state to follow after Dorian. Journeying back to camp would take time, and would give the corrupted Templars even more of a head start. Unable to keep it all neatly bottled up like he was trained to and had during all those other moments when he felt like the world was crashing down around him, he fell to his knees, his body beginning to tremble and shake.

  
“Bull,” the Herald said weakly, starting forward with Sera stumbling behind them. They recognized the look on Bull’s face from when the dreadnaughts sunk, but this, this was worse. The loss and desperation and hurt there was so obvious, Bull looking ready to fall apart completely, “Bull, I’m so sorry.”

  
The Inquisitor made no promises, knew that saying they would get Dorian back meant nothing until the mage was in the Bull’s arms again. Bull would see through the weak promise easily, so they kept their mouth shut for now. Instead, they wrapped Bull in a hug, mumbling their apologizes as guilt bubbled in their gut.


	3. Blood and Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basically, everyone is worried about Dorian. That's it.

A scout had been sent to the Chargers as soon as the battered party returned to camp. Bull liked to keep his men handy, in case anything got out of hand. He had hoped he would never have to call on them, but now he was grateful he thought ahead. The others were still getting their wounds tended to by the healers, but Bull was pacing the outskirts of camp. He’d forwent having his injuries taken care of, needing the pain to keep him strong, to use when he needed to bash some skulls in later. The pain made him remember this was _real_ , that Dorian had been taken from him and he had to act fast to get him back safely.

  
Red lyrium. Bull thought of Varric’s warning to the Inquisition’s mages of how powerful the stuff was, of Dagna reaffirming that mages were particularly susceptible to its powers. His hand shot up to the dragon tooth around his neck, remembering the promise that they would always be together, remembering the promise he made to _himself_ that he would never lose Dorian. Then, his mind flashed all those people encased in the red crystals in Emprise du Lion, of the giant tainted with the stuff and his pained, warbled cries as they battled the beast. The thought of it all brought a snarl to Bull’s lips, making the anger at himself for being so careless bubble up again. He had failed Dorian, failed to keep him safe. He’d told Dorian that the battle would be _fun_ , he couldn’t have known, but—

  
He lashed out, striking a nearby tree with his fist, splintered wood digging into his knuckles and causing blood to ooze down his hand.

  
“Hey, big guy,” Sera’s voice was oddly gentle, oddly quiet, and it made Bull growl again, turning towards her, expecting more pity and more apologies, “We’re gonna get him back, right? Make those arseholes pay?”

  
Studying the elf, the Bull’s fist relaxed slightly, the anger in his expression melting into sadness. Sera looked lost and hurt. He thought back to the battle, thought about her frantic cries when Dorian was being taken away. She had been quiet during the trek back to camp, even though she was constantly fidgeting with her supplies, the fear and panic still evident then, still evident _now_ in the way she picked at her scabbing wounds.

  
“Yeah, we’ll make ‘em pay,” Bull nodded, swallowing down his emotions for her sake. He could do this later, in private, beat himself up over his failures, wallow in the pain, and let it drive him to do more, do better, _make them pay._ Right now, someone else needed him, and he could be there for her, “C’mere.”

  
The Bull reached out, tugging Sera into a tight embrace. She squirmed slightly before giving in, pressing her face against the Bull’s warm skin.

  
“He has to be okay,” she mumbled into his chest, the guilt and the hurt swelling inside of her. Dorian was her friend, Dorian had kept her safe time and time again with a well-timed barrier or jolt of lightning when she missed an enemy creeping in too close. She had few friends, really. There was the Red Jennies, but she would never share an ale with them, or laugh over tales of ridiculous nobles whose underthings were laced with an itching spell.

  
“Can’t make any promises, I’m afraid,” Bull admitted, knowing that Sera _needs_ to hear that the ‘Vint will be fine, but knowing it would only making it that much harder later if he wasn’t. Her fingers dug into his skin, a strangled noise fighting its way out of her chest.

  
“Let it out,” Bull nodded, large hands rubbing at her back.

  
“Shouldn’t I be the one comforting you, eh? He’s your parathing,” she half-laughed, half-sobbed.

  
Bull shrugged slightly, words failing him for once. So often, he knew exactly what to say, exactly what to do. Now, he was lost, clueless, broken. Instead, he kept his arms wrapped tightly around Sera, which in turn kept him grounded. After another moment, Sera let out an ugly sob, the force of it shaking her small body. He murmured to her gently in Qunlat, _asit tal-eb_ , somehow things will work out how things are meant to be. After long minutes, Sera pulled away, wiping at her nose and eyes.

  
“C’mon, get healed up. Can’t go off saving Pissypants while you’re bleedin’ out,” Sera scoffed, looking down and away. She clung to the hope they could save him, trying to push Bull’s lack of reassurance away from her mind, trying to push away the image of Dorian lifeless, glaring red blood mingling with the red of the crystals. Bull gave in, slowly following Sera across the camp, both of them falling quiet, caught up in their troubled thoughts.

  
~~~

  
“I should go _now_ ,” Bull grunted out, seeking the Herald out once he was healed. They didn’t look surprised, but they didn’t look pleased, either. They were discussing their course of action as they waited for the Chargers, who were less than a day’s journey away. Bull knew how much could be accomplished in a day, how much torture could be inflicted in carefully measure increments, how long that day could feel measured in the steady drip of blood and constant sting of pain.

  
“What, go alone? That’ll work out great,” the Herald rubbed a hand over their face. Their own nerves were frayed, the loss of Dorian weighing down on them as well. _They_ were the leader, _they_ were the one meant to get everyone there and back in one piece. It was ridiculous to think they could all survive the end of the world without some casualties, but fuck if they weren’t going to try.

  
Bull growled, “Dorian needs me.”

  
“I know, I know,” the Herald tried to appease, lowering their voice and holding out their hands in a placating gesture, “We need to get to him as soon as possible, but we can’t rush in there unprepared. We need to get all our ducks in a row and then-”

  
“Waiting is not an option.”

  
“I don’t need to lose someone else!” the Herald shrilled, face going wide-eyed and hurt. Dorian meant something to them, too —  a friend, a confident, a fellow scholar. They were doing their best to put on a brave face, but it was easy to see through when Bull looked past his own pain. Bull faltered, huffed and backed down.

  
“We leave as soon as my men get there,” the Bull stated firmly.

  
“Agreed,” the Inquisitor nodded, knowing it was a better compromise than they could have hoped for. 


	4. Emptied and Hollowed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Rite of Tranquility

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry.

When Dorian stirred, he was greeted with the acrid smell of magebane and blood. Panic set into his chest before he could process much else, making him begin to squirm violently. His movements felt weak and sluggish, limbs not responding as quickly as they should, head buzzing with the poison, body still feeling empty. There was a cloth pressed between his teeth, keeping his groans of pain to a muffled whine, and he focused on breathing steadily through his nose. Even the cloth tasted of magebane, sharp and awful, and it snuffed out any mana remaining within him after the battle. Slowly, he became aware of shackles keeping his arms pinned in the small of his back, of more shackles tethering his ankles to the wall. As his eyes adjusted, he made out the row of bars before him, the cold stone walls around him. There was a distant glow of red past the bars, and Dorian shivered violently at the thought of red lyrium, of what the Templars might _do_ to him, to the others - if they’re here. He hoped, he _prayed_ that the others are safe, that they got away, that the Templars only wanted him. The memory of the Bull poisoned by the crystal comes to mind, his voice wobbling with the poison, his body red-veined, his cool-grey eye glowing a vivid red. It’s enough to make Dorian sob, weak and pitiful, on the dirty floor.

  
“So, you’re awake,” a voice echoed through the dungeon, followed by approaching footfalls. Dorian stiffened, braced himself for whatever was coming, “Was worried they clubbed you too hard over the head. Mages are so _weak_.”

  
Dorian shifted, tilting his head up to look at his captor. She was tall and looked as if the body beneath the armor and growing lyrium was once lean and muscular, but was now tainted with budding crystals and pulsating veins. Her hair was ashy blond, hanging in frizzy strands, and her eyes glowed that awful red. Dorian squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push out the memory of Bull’s body crumbling dead and lifeless through the doors at Redcliff.

  
A sharp, cold laugh rose from the woman, “You’re only proving my point, mage.” The last word was growl, said as if it were some sort of disgusting insult.

  
Dorian held back the weak noises of pain and desperation that were trying to claw their way out, and began to build up his walls. With much effort and pain, his muscles searing from being restrained for Maker-knows-how-long, the wounds from battle reopening, he pushed himself up to his knees. He’s sure it looked pathetic, using his shoulders as leverage to lift off the floor, but he wasn’t going to lie weak and broken on the cell floor. Again, she laughed at him.

  
“I heard you were one for dramatics,” she grinned before unlocking the cell door and stepping inside.

  
Every part of Dorian was telling him to try to run, to back away from the woman in her glaring red armor, with the cruel smile plastered on her face. Instead, he tipped his chin higher, defiance gleaming in his eyes as he readied himself for the worst.   
Roughly, she grabbed Dorian by the hair, the deep gash across down his face from his temple burning anew. With just as much roughness, she yanked the gag away from his mouth.

  
“You’re going to talk, mage. We know you will. They say you can’t resist listening to your own pretty voice,” she sneered, fingers digging into his scalp, tearing out patches of hair, “You’re weak, and that’s why we chose you.”

  
Dorian set his jaw, vowing to himself to remain silent no matter what they did to him. Nothing could make him betray the others, nothing could make him lose the only friends and home he ever found. The woman was foolish to think he was weak when he had so much to protect.

  
The toe of her boot found Dorian’s soft stomach, making him cough and splutter. As he went to double over, the metal guard on her knee collided with his nose, spraying blood with a sickening crack. He fell against her leg, metal restraints digging at his wrists, blood flowing freely from his face. The cold laughter filled the chamber once more as she laid blow after blow into the man, cracking bones and ripping open flesh.

  
Quickly, the pain, the beatings began to blur together, the fogginess of pain coupling with the haze of magebane to make everything surreal and distant. After so many blows, everything began to grow numb as the world slipped from his grasp, as his blood soaked the cold floor. Dorian counted each blow, to keep his mind focused, to keep anything revealing falling from his lips. _Five… Six… Seven_ He sobbed and groaned, but never answered their demands to tell them the secrets he knew, to condemn his comrades, his friends. _Twelve… Thirteen… Fourteen…_

  
Time slipped away from him as well. There was no way to tell how long passed in the dark confines of the dungeon, and he could only determine the passage of time by the blood finally clotting in his wounds, from the Templars returning for another round of beatings. _One… Two… Three…_

Each time, there was something new. They tried burning into his flesh with metal pokers, tried breaking each bone on the fingers on his left hand, tried denying him food or water or somewhere to piss. Dorian sobbed, yelled out, but his carefully built wall of defense kept the secrets in. They didn’t know him — they didn’t know how good he was at hiding secrets.

  
“K-Kill me,” Dorian choked out, surprising himself. His voice sounded rough and foreign — he wasn’t sure anyone would recognize it to be _his_ voice if the others came looking for him. If Bull came looking for him. Besides Tevene prayers and curses, he hasn’t spoke much of anything since being captured, and it surprised all of them.

  
The woman, the first Templar who spoke to him, laughed again. It was a long, low laugh, full of malice and hate and bitterness, but she was frustrated, Dorian could tell. Mages were so weak, so easy to break, and yet this prissy mage wouldn’t talk, wouldn’t so much as utter one of the Inner Circle’s names.

  
“There’s worse things than death,” she growled, and Dorian thought of all the things that were worse— Bull’s death somewhere in a corrupted future, betraying the trust of the others, watching as they died before him as he struggled helplessly against his restraints, living his life as someone he wasn’t—

  
“Get it,” she ordered someone nearby, her mouth twisting into a horrid smile. They nod, somehow understanding her request. She turns back to Dorian, grabbing him by the hair again, hoisting him to his knees. If her hand wasn’t there, keeping him upright, he wouldn’t have the strength to do so himself, “There’s something that’s a fate worse than death for your kind, right? Something that leaves you hollowed out, emptied of all that precious magic you parade around.”

  
With a sharp breath, Dorian understood. _Tranquility_. A tremor passed through him, gripping him to his marrow. It’s worse than death, to be forced deep inside himself to live a life empty and devoid of emotion, to become a husk of who he once was. His father had tried that once, streams of blood burning across his skin, magic buzzing in his ears and against his skin. He let out a yell, trying to jerk away from her grip, and she laughed and laughed. He struggled, despite his injured body screaming at him to stop and the shackles keeping his arms restrained behind him. When he heard the sizzling of hot metal, saw the glowing lyrium band in the shape of a sunburst cut through the half-light, he momentarily lost himself in his panic.

  
“Nonono, anything but that, anything,” he sobbed, “ _Please_ , no—”

  
The door creaked open again, the man approaching with the brand. Dorian sobbed, tried to pull away, with no avail.

  
“Talk, and the branding rod is gone. Maybe we’ll even kill you after you talk—  _if_ we’ve feeling merciful,” she growled, dragging Dorian forward as far as his chains would allow to make the threat of approaching Tranquility more real.

  
Dorian swallowed down the panic once more, resigning himself to this fate. Tranquility, ceasing to be himself was better than treachery. He gave a firm shake of his head, allowing his mind to wander to Bull. He had tried not to let his thought linger on the man — it only made everything hurt worse. He feared it might be the last time he could think of the man lovingly, to think of the way Bull smiled at him, fingers carding through his hair, gentle lips on his own. A stream of tears escaped Dorian’s eyes at the memories of Bull’s gentleness and love, the dragon tooth around his neck feeling like a weight dragging him down. He prayed that this wouldn’t crush Bull, that he could somehow move on past Dorian once he was emptied.

  
“Fine,” the woman hissed, “Maybe you will once you’re Tranquil.”

  
Worry bubbled in Dorian’s chest, but the memory of Maddox and his strange loyalty to Samson came to mind. It’s worth the risk, he decided, worth it to keep the others safe.

  
A scream cut through the air when Dorian felt the heat that radiated off the brand a moment before metal met flesh, Dorian unable to hold back to cry of fear and panic that ripped forth. There was the hiss and smell of burning flesh, which overpowered all of Dorian’s senses for a moment that felt like an eternity as he screamed against the pain and the horror blooming on the horizon. Something tugged at his mind, darkness settling in and pulling him deeper and deeper down, the scream sounding distant and not his own. Walls that felt different than the ones he’s spent so much time building spring up in his mind, cold and towering and awful.

  
The scream cut off abruptly, even before the brand was removed, reduced to a slight whine of pain. When the branding was finished, the sunburst burned into Dorian’s once-perfect skin, Dorian waited patiently and quietly beneath the Templar’s cruel grip.


	5. Searching and Struggling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Chargers arrive!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a filler? Like, important bits of filler.

The Chargers arrived just past daybreak, dew still scattered on the grass. Bull hadn’t slept a wink, and suspected that Sera and the Herald hadn’t either from the shuffling he’d heard all night from their tent. His own tent felt confining, restrictive, and he had to get out. Get away. It was only a reminder of Dorian, of only hours ago imagining what he wanted do to Dorian when they returned to camp and now not knowing if he would see Dorian again. Not that the endless woods outside was better, the Graves seeming too vast of a place to find his lover, and he suddenly felt small and helpless. He slunk past the Requisition Officer, hoping to avoid the pitying looks and apologies that kept spilling from her whenever he was in earshot. Instead, he ducked into the woods, close enough to camp to know when his men arrived, and smashed his fists against great trees until his knuckles were bloodied and filled with splinters, the tree showing signs of wear as well. It kept him angry, kept him focused on getting Dorian back. It seemed that anything involving Dorian had a way of tipping everything on its heard, making him love and hurt and fear like he never had before. Those masks carefully built during his time as a spy were stripped away time and time again lately, leaving him exposed and raw. It all made him feel alive in a way he never had before, making him realize that he finally had something that was his and his alone, and he begged the darkness for Dorian’s safety.

  
“Chief,” Krem looked frazzled as he greeted the Bull next to the fire, “Any updates?”

  
“Not a damn one,” Bull shook his head, Krem easily able to read the hurt by the tenseness of his shoulders, the creases around his eyes.

  
“Good thing we’ve got the best damn tracker there is,” Krem said proudly, sparing a smile for Skinner.

  
Skinner nodded to her leader, “We’ll find him, Bull.” The normally rugged woman looked apologetic.

  
Bull grunted. He’s sure they’ll find him, one way or another, but he was afraid they’d find him to late. He’s afraid Dorian will already be dead, will already be encased in the red growing crystal. He’s afraid they’ve already failed him.

  
“All ready to kick some arse, yeah?” Sera emerged from the tent she shared with the Herald, her bow and quiver at the ready. Her eyes were red-ringed and her hair was unkempt, and Bull nodded at her. The Herald followed a few moments later, their weapons at the ready as well. They shared a look with Bull, which mirrored the strange tangle of crippling fear and unsteady hope that Bull felt in his chest.  
  
Bull lead them back to the clearing where the battle began. Bodies of Templars still dotted the forest and the giant’s carcasses were stinking even worse than the day before. There were still footprints in the mud, some of which Bull could easily identify as Dorian’s distinct pair of Tevene boots. He wordlessly gestured to where it happened, Skinner easily understanding the meaning as she hurried forward to search the area. It was easy to tell from here where the trail lead, a splatter of blood and a path of broken branches cutting through the woods. The path remained clear for some time, until the bleeding slowed and the Templars grew more cautious.

  
At times, the group stopped and waited for Skinner to examine the scene before her. She’d mutter to herself, determining what exactly happened at this point — someone stopped to piss, someone tripped over a jagged rock, someone tore the cloth of their armor here. Bull trusted her expertise and was willing to wait a few extra moments for Skinner to make her decision, but his whole body was jittery as he waited and waited. The sun crossed overhead, passing high in the sky before they even reached any sort of road or landmark. It was beginning to set when their pace slowed, Bull urging them to go on before the sun set and they lost their trail.

  
Skinner shook her head as they reached a clearing, “Gonna take me a bit to figure this one out. Best camp here.”

  
A low growl rose from Bull. He was having trouble suppressing such noises of displeasure lately, and found making intelligible sentences a difficult task.

  
“She’s right, Chief,” Krem nodded, reaching out to put a comforting hand on the Bull’s upper arm, “Gonna be dark soon and we won’t be able to make heads nor tails of the track.”

  
Bull squeezed his eye closed, trying to focusing on keeping his head clear and level. There was a flash of red across his vision, anger rising up for a moment, threatening to make Bull lash out at the others. He shook it away with another grunt before he turned away, putting some space between himself and his cohorts.   
  
Another long night began to tick by, Bull keeping track of the time by the passage of the moon overhead. He kept to his tent, hearing the murmur of the others as they sat around the fire late into the night. From the shape of the figure outside, he could tell that Grim had taken first watch when the others retreated to their bedrolls. The night dragged on, and he felt cold without Dorian’s shape pressing against his in the night, without warm kisses peppering his skin, without sultry looks starting a fire in his chest. He choked down a sob, instead pushing himself up and stumbling out of his tent into the cool night. Grim gave him a courteous nod, but kept his distance, understood the need for solitude and silence.

  
Aimless, he paroled the outskirts of camp, desperate to pick up on anything that would give him a clue to where Dorian was. Skinner had kept her next movement from him, knowing the knowledge would be temptation for Bull to press ahead by himself in the night. His vision was shit, especially in the night, so any snapped twigs or speckles of blood were lost on him.

  
“You gotta sleep sometime,” Krem said from behind him, understanding and irritation mixing into his tone. He was without his armor for once, already dressed in his sleep clothes. When he saw Bull creep out of his tent, the lieutenant had followed dutifully.

  
Bull grunted, shrugged.

  
“You’ll be useless when we get there if you keep this up,” Krem pointed out, crossing his arms, “Gotta be ready for anything.”

  
“I’ve gone without sleep longer than this.”

  
“Yeah, but you ever been this worked up?”

  
The surprised, lost look on Bull’s face said everything.

  
“Yeah, didn’t think so,” Krem sighed, looking down and away for a moment, “I can’t say I want to find the ‘Vint as badly as you do, but I sure as hell want to find twinkletoes and crush some Templar skulls while doing so. Hope you can get some rest so you can be at your best for some payback.”

  
Krem clapped the Bull on the arm before retreating back to his tent. Bull stared after him, knowing what he said was true, but not knowing if he could turn his mind off long enough to rest. He sighed deeply, forcing himself to head back to the tent and lay down. Sleep came in fleeting bursts, a memory of Dorian laughing or a memory of Dorian weakly struggling against a Templar causing him to jerk awake time and time again.


	6. Found and Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team raids the Red Templars' fortress and find Dorian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhh, I'm sorry again.

When the ruins began to crop up around them, Ancient Elven things that have decayed over time, they know they’re close. There was fresh tracks around the area, and they had spotted smoke wafting up through the trees a few miles back. It had been four days, four impossibly long days filled with worry and little sleep for the whole team. Bull tried not to give up hope, tried to make himself believe that Dorian was still whole somewhere nearby. His logic and reasoning weigh against it, knowing how brutal the Templars are, and how much of a pain in the ass that Dorian can be.

  
Skinner went forward alone, scoping out the area, leaving the others to wait anxiously. Sera bit her fingernails until they bleed, until Bull gently moved her hands away from her mouth. He gave a weak smile, all he could muster at this point as weariness and worry wear him down. With a frown, Sera found a perch in a tree, hands tucked under her tights, staring into the darkness of the woods instead.

  
Skinner returned a half-hour later, looking triumphant, “Found an old castle. Not many guards — half dozen, maybe? I took out a few that will go unnoticed. We can get in no problem.”

  
Bull breathed a sigh of relief. He knew that this wasn’t the end, that they had no idea what state Dorian was in behind the walls, but it’s something. His hand brushed the dragon tooth around his neck. The possibilities leave him frozen for a moment, the thought of finding Dorian dead or already-corrupted by lyrium leaving him breathless.

  
“Lead the way, then,” the Herald said, patting Bull’s arm as they moved past him to follow Skinner.  
  
They took out a number of guards along the way, quick and quiet so they didn’t have the chance to alert the rest of the Templars. It’s swift and deadly with the group they have, everyone skilled in death, everyone ready to make the Templars suffer for the pain they’d inflicted. Sera easily picked off a number of archers on the lookout posts along the battered castle battlements, their bodies slumping back against the walls, gurgling on their blood and unable to warn their comrades. As the near the entrance of the old castle, a yell of alarm went up, the clanking of metal and crystal filling the space behind the stone as the Templars ready for an attack.

  
“No mercy,” Bull ordered to his men, who nod as they take their positions.

  
With the mood everyone was in, the struggle outside of the walls was quick. The long-range fighters took out the warriors on the walls, arrows and spells flying through the air. A few Knights appeared before the gates, protecting their keep, but they snapped like toothpicks under the Bull’s fury. It didn’t take long to clear the way for Rocky to hurry in with his explosives and give the warning for the others to back away. The explosion rocked the earth beneath their feet, sending rock and wood through the air, taking out another handful of Templars in its wake. Once the smoke cleared, the group hurried through the gates,  Bull and Krem rushing ahead to clear the path of Templars.

  
The courtyard quickly turned into a field of red, Templars torn to pieces and scattered across it. No one was holding back, the fear and anger of the last days funneled through them. Sera cackled madly from the raised platform she reached, arrows catching Templar after Templar in the throat as they tried to flee her onslaught. The Inquisitor and Skinner dashed in and out of the shadows, blades finding the weak points of enemy armor and sinking into flesh. An occasional blast cut through the air, sprays of ice and fire grenades from Rocky’s weapons catching Templars in their wake. Krem smashed through armor and bone, maul splattered in blood.

  
A dark satisfaction at being able to kill the Templars settled in Bull’s chest. Each spray of blood, each anguished cry made the feeling grow, a booming yell of challenge echoing against the stone walls. Still, there was the empty feeling in his chest, the lack of warmth and the lack of Dorian. That pain coursed through him, keeping him from losing himself in the blood and death, keeping his mind focused on finding the man. It was the right kind of pain to make him fight at his best, landing precise blows to crack through enemy armor, arches of his ax ending multiple lives in its wake.

  
Templars were efficiently cleared from the courtyard, a few of the lucky ones retreating into the depth of the castle. They headed towards the doors, Bull taking a deep breath to settle himself. The Herald brushed an arm against his side.

  
“We’ll clear out the upper passages. Dorian’s likely held somewhere below. Got get him,” they nodded to Bull.

  
“Krem, Stitches, with me,” Bull ordered gruffly. He’d thought this through, knew that Dorian would most like be injured if he was alive, and wanted Skinner to be there to attend to him as soon as possible. He knew that Krem would be the only one able to keep the Bull together if it was the alternative.

  
The Herald, Sera, and the rest of the Chargers headed into the castle, clearing out the passages. The Bull broke away from the main hallways, searching for the stairs that lead down into the dungeons. Expecting the intruders to be on the search for Dorian, guards were stationed at the steps. Bull smirked, the amount of Templars gathered there being a dead giveaway to Dorian’s whereabouts. It took only a few well-placed swings of Bull and Krem’s weapons to break apart their armor and their bones, crystals scattering across the floor and down the steps. The descended, passing through the hallways like a storm, obliterating anything that was unlucky enough to be caught in their path.

  
There’s another gathering of Templars, just before another set of doors. Bull was about to cut down the next group when they parted to reveal the Knight-Commander who had taken Dorian. She was holding the mage by his neck in front of her, the fingers of her gauntlet digging into his throat, trails of blood running from the injury. Blood and wounds decorated every part of Dorian’s exposed body, discoloring Dorian’s bronze skin to shades of black and purple and red. Bull tensed, having expected Dorian to be hurt, but seeing the man before him made his blood run hot in a way he hadn’t expected.

  
“Dorian-”

  
The eyes that lifted to meet his weren’t the same. They were dull and distant and unsettling, nothing like the heat he was accustomed to seeing in the man’s eyes. It sent a shiver through the Bull as his eye flicked up to the branding on Dorian’s forehead, the chantry’s sunburst still a fresh burn. Dorian looked unmoved by the fact that metal was digging into his throat, looked unaffected by Bull’s sudden appearance. He had encountered Tranquil rarely before the Inquisition. They were always unsettling, but Bull accepted it and never let his mind linger on it. He had never known who they were before the Rite, never had known what their eyes looked like before the life was snuffed from them. He hadn’t thought it was possible to feel anymore broken inside, yet here he was, heart shattering again at the empty look on Dorian’s face, in his eyes. Bile rose in the back of Bull’s throat, knees weak and blood rushing though his ears as rage began to boil in his blood again. Krem and Stitches let out sharp gasps behind him, realization crashing over them as well.

  
“I’ll kill him,” the Knight-Commander warned, a warble to her voice showing that she was scared. Bull snarled, clenching his ax tighter. The rage shook through him, wanting to rip the people before him limb from limb for what they had done to Dorian.

  
“You do and you’re dead,” Krem countered, somehow finding his voice.

  
She laughed: “I am either way, right? If I let him go, you’ll let me leave.”

  
Bull growled, “Not a chance.”

  
“Then he dies,” she shrugged, grip tightening, causing Dorian to squirm slightly. His face remained blank, and Bull couldn’t help but think Dorian was already dead anyways. Krem and Stitches looked towards Bull for the answer.

  
“Fine,” he spat out the word, not ready to give up on Dorian just yet, “You better hope the others don’t find you.”

  
The Templar’s eyes grew wild for a moment, and Bull feared he made a misstep when she still clung to Dorian. In a flurry, she shoved Dorian forward past her parted men, before turning on her heel and disappearing into the shadows of the hall. Dorian stumbled, falling to his knees, and the Templars sprang into movement around him. Some rushed away, following their captain, while others lashed out at Bull and his men. The Bull sprang into movement, hurrying forward to sweep Dorian up and away from the chaos. It took Krem and Stitches only a moment to leave the Templars splattered across the hallway as Bull set Dorian down out of the reach of the battle. Legs feeling like jelly, Bull stumbled to the ground in front of him.

  
“Dorian,” Bull choked out, forcing himself to look into Dorian’s eyes. Nothing, there was nothing there. In the other dire situations they’d been through, the man had still been trying to joke and tease, maybe ask the Bull what took him so long. Instead, it’s just this steady, emotionless gaze. Bull couldn’t help but reach up and cup Dorian’s face,  “Kadan…”

  
Another long, flat blink. Tears bit at Bull’s eye, unable to hold them back. They were too late. They failed him — _he_ failed him. There was no Dorian left in those dull eyes, no hint of sarcasm or wit or caring on his face. With a whimper, the Bull touched the dragon tooth still around Dorian’s neck.

  
“The Iron Bull,” the former mage replied, voice as dead as his eyes, and Bull let out a weak sob. Dorian understood, knew why the man before them was breaking down. They were intimate, a pairing full of passion and want, and now they had lost that. Seeing the man he had once cared for so passionately reduced to tears before him did nothing to move him. Dorian had nothing to give anymore.

  
“C’mon,” Krem urged, sounding shaken himself as he glanced around anxiously, “The others will be worried…” He swallowed audibly, knowing that this wouldn’t lessen their worries any.

  
With a grunted answer, Bull hesitantly reached out for Dorian. He ran a trembling knuckle down Dorian’s arms, studying the bruising scattered dark and worrying across his flesh, the obviously broken arm, the dried blood caked around open cuts. Stitches hovered over Bull’s shoulder, looking the wounds over critically.  
“The injuries can wait, Boss,” Stitches decided, hand brushing quickly against the Bull’s shoulder before drawing back again, “Nothing immediately life-threatening.”  
“You will have to carry me,” Dorian said evenly, “I cannot walk.”

  
Krem muttered in Tevene, a shudder running through his limbs at the emptiness of Dorian’s tone. He glanced in the direction the Knight-Commander had headed in, hoping that she gets what she deserves somehow or another for hurting both Dorian and Bull so badly. The Bull could only nod before scooping up the smaller man. He was sticky with blood and grime, which made Bull’s stomach churn, yet Dorian didn’t complain or grimace at the pain that shot through him, face still entirely blank.


	7. Failure and Guilt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rest of the group reacts to a Tranquil Dorian.

They found the rest of the party in a cluttered supply room, snatching up lose papers and anything revealing about the Red Templars. The Inquisitor turned towards them first, a brief hint of relief crossing their face at seeing Dorian tucked against Bull’s chest. It faded, eyes flickering over the visible wounds on Dorian. Their gaze moved up to Bull, his expression especially somber.

  
“Bull, is he-”

  
Dorian shifted, turning towards the Inquisitor when they began to speak. A strangled noise rose from their throat, hurriedly clasping a hand over their mouth before anything else could make its way out. Dorian’s blank face and the brand freshly burned into his forehead made the Herald’s world begin to sway, nausea pooling in their stomach, thoughts buzzing frantically. The others were staring as well, processing the awful reality, a dark mood settling in the room.

  
“They … He…” the Herald stuttered as Bull brushed past them to find a comfortable place to set Dorian down. Stitches followed closely, beginning to closely assess Dorian’s injuries once Bull placed him on top crate near the back of the room. They planned on getting the mage patched up as best they could here, before attending to the injuries more fully back at camp.

  
Sera drew up next to Bull, eyes wide, “That’s … that’s that Tranquility thing, innit?” She watched as Stitches began to clean apply bandages to Dorian’s wounds, the once-mage wearing a vacant stare as he looked up at Sera.

  
“Yeah,” Bull said dully, feeling as if nothing mattered anymore.

  
“He’s not going to be like that broad in the library, is he?” Sera’s voice was shrill, panicked, hand digging into Bull’s arm, “ _Is he_?”

  
Bull ran a hand over his face, trying to muster up the strength to say something, help Sera, but he struggled to get a grip on his own emotions. Dalish moved forward instead, pulling Sera away from Bull and beginning to murmur to the elf. She continued to prattle about magic and knowing it only led to bad things, until she let out a sob and collapsed into Dalish’s grip. Bull stepped away from the others, needing some space, yet not wanting to let Dorian out of his sight. When Stitches asked what all they had done, Dorian had begun to make a list of the events in chronological order in a monotone voice.

  
“Katoh,” Bull said sharply after the mention of red hot metal pressed against Dorian’s shoulder, the blistered wound still visible. It was all too-much, too overwhelming to hear Dorian rattle off the harm inflicted on him as if he was reading a shopping list.

  
Dorian stopped, eyes moving over to Bull’s form. He remembered the word, remembered when it was spoken in the dead of night when things got too much. Emotions had overflowed and overwhelmed then, leaving him exposed and vulnerable, and Bull had stopped without question. It felt as if he was remembering someone else’s life, small and faraway.

  
“I did not mean to harm you, the Iron Bull,” Dorian said, which only made the Bull flinch away.

  
“S’alright, don’t worry about it,” Bull mumbled, turning away from Dorian. No one approached to comfort him, nothing they could say or do able to make this any easier. They were all still reeling from it, shaken to the core and hurting, too. The ache in his chest had grown deeper with this answer, Dorian now an empty husk of who he had been. He remembered Dorian telling him how awful the blood magic ritual was, how he would rather be dead than altered into something he wasn’t. The Bull’s fists clenched hard enough to cut into the palms of his callous hands.

\---

  
The walk back to camp was tense, Dorian tucked against Bull’s chest once again. The mage felt oddly heavy in Bull arms, a knot in his throat making his steps shaky and breath catch whenever he glanced down at his lover in his arms. Golden eyes scanned across the landscape, nothing ever changing in them.

  
No one really spoke, a palpable cloud around them. Sera was muttering frantically to herself, trailing at the end of the group, fraying everyone’s already wrecked nerves. Occasionally, Krem would duck back to urge her on, to try to quiet her. The Inquisitor had their eyes trained to the ground, feeling weak and helpless.

  
“There’s gotta be somethin’ we can do! We can’t jus’ give up on him!” Sera shrilled as Krem tried to speak with her. Gritting his teeth, Bull forced himself to keep looking ahead, not to look back at Sera or down at Dorian. He knew either sight could make him easily break right now, so he focused on putting one foot ahead of the other, breathing in and out through his nose, walking towards the tree with Skinner’s black sash tied around it, “It’s not right. It’s just not—”

  
“There is no known cure,” Dorian said evenly. Startled, the Bull stopped in his tracks. After a moment, Sera let out a ugly sob from behind him, and Bull forced himself to move forward again.

  
“Might be best to keep quiet right now,” Bull advised. He could feel Dorian nod against him, falling placatingly silent. Bull had spent the last few days longing to hear the sound of Dorian’s voice again, and now he dreaded every time the man opened his mouth. The realization was setting in that he would never hear Dorian laugh again, or groan under his hands, or even huffily _complain_ again. It felt crippling, the man physically in his arms, yet gone forever in the same moment.

  
Bull felt it was awful of him to think, but he almost wished that Dorian had died instead of this. This hollow, empty shell who was nothing like his Dorian. There might have been some closure then, some satisfaction in bringing death to those who had ended Dorian’s life. Now, there was nothing Bull could do that would amount to this pain they were inflicting. The guilt grew heavier, both at having failed Dorian before and at failing him again now as the discomfort over the empty man in his arms engulfed him.  
  
At camp, Skinner attended to Dorian’s wounds and gave the man a number of potions that left him asleep in his tent. Bull watched over his sleeping form, Dorian almost seeming normal like this. Even in sleep, he was rigid and expressionless, Bull used to the man shifting and muttering in his sleep. Still, it was easier to pretend this way, to pretend none of this was happening, to pretend that when Dorian woke, everything would be fine.

  
“Chief?” Krem asked from outside the tent.

  
“Yeah?”

  
Krem ducked in, concern written all over his face. He glanced between Dorian and Bull.

  
“Let me sit with him for a bit,” Krem offered, knowing it wouldn’t do much to ease Bull’s worries, but knowing something had to be done, “You haven’t really slept in days. There’s … not much we can do until we get back to Skyhold.”

  
“There’s _nothing_ we can do,” Bull answered, slowly standing. There was no easy solution, no cure. He had begun to contemplate if Dorian would want to live a life like this, knew he wouldn’t, but couldn’t bring himself to admit to what the alternatives were. He brushed by Krem, placing a hand on his shoulder for a moment, before ducking out of the tent.

  
The others were gathered around the campfire, everyone tense and silent. Even Sera was quiet now, rocking slightly on her perch on a tree trunk. Bull sighed and turned away, wandering out into the woods around him. His mind wandered to the time he had last been with his Dorian. He thought of their arms brushing, the sultry look that Dorian had shot him at they bantered, the way he blazed in battle before it all went wrong. His legs wobbled under him, wishing he would have done more, longing for that touch of warm skin and flash of pearly teeth. He slumped against a tree, sinking to his knees, and pressed a hand over his face. He’d been trying to keep it all in, allowing himself brief moments of grief and rage, but it all came spilling forth now. He began to weep, sobs wracking his body as he let the feeling of loss and desperation and hopelessness wash over him. There was nothing he could do. He’d failed to protect the thing he cared about the most, and now it was gone.


	8. Not Home Anymore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team returns to Skyhold and everything feels different.

The Bull dreaded returning to Skyhold. It held so many memories of being with Dorian, of finding Dorian asleep in the library, of Dorian’s laughter and singing filling the tavern, of Dorian’s bare skin glistening with sweat as he trained. He wasn’t sure how many more times he could handle seeing others react to this Tranquil Dorian, knowing Cole would be completely rattled, Cullen would be losing a friend, even Solas losing a fellow scholar. The Inquisitor had sent word when Dorian went missing, and sent another after he had been found, relaying the events as succinctly as possible. They had procured a wagon for Dorian to ride in, the group taking turns sitting with the weak and injured man, though nothing indicated the level of pain he could be feeling. Sera was left out of the rotation, the elf having avoided Dorian like the plague, even refusing to talk about the man.

  
“We’re close,” the Herald said, catching up to Bull in a few hurried strides. He had been leading the group, getting space from the others, getting space from Dorian. The snowy passages that were the last stretch until Skyhold were rising up in the distance. For once, they looked threatening and condemning, instead of something that welcomed the Bull home.

  
“Yeah…” he sighed out, “Any word?”

  
They shrugged, “Not really sure. Their answers were kinda hurried, I suspect. Though, Leliana mentioned something about Cassandra… Josephine is ordering every book on the Tranquil that we know of.”

  
Bull grunted. It was something, at least.

  
The Herald shifted uncomfortably next to Bull for a moment, “Dorian offered to help with the research of Tranquil. I mentioned it to him, last time I sat with him. He said he … remembered how things used to be and knew he was beneficial to the Inquisition, knew he had been happy. He said he hopes to return to that.”

  
Bull’s heart fell into his toes, the memory of a happy Dorian shaking him to the core now.

  
“He said he hopes he can still be beneficial.”

  
“It’s a wild goose chance,” Bull grunted out, not making eye-contact with the Inquisitor. They faltered slightly, surprised at the Bull’s reaction, thinking the news would be a relief somehow. It had given them some hope that their friend was buried down deep inside and maybe there was a way to pull him back to the surface again. Bull still wore the dragon tooth around his neck, still touched in unconsciously at times, and the Herald was sure that his dedication to Dorian was just as strong as ever.

  
“We can’t just give up on him… He is my friend,” the Inquisitor mumbled dejectedly.

  
Bull’s cold eye flashed with anger and fear, “I’m not giving up on him. Just don’t want to get my hopes up. Last time…”

  
He thought of the relief that flooded through him at first when he laid his eyes on Dorian. Then, of the crippling horror that washed over him in the next moment at seeing Dorian’s gold eyes flat and distant. Getting his hopes up could only mean having to live through something crushing again.

  
“I … I know, Bull. I can’t imagine…” the Herald stuttered out, “I just thought…”

  
“I know you meant well. Thanks, Boss,” Bull nodded, taking a few long strides to put some added distance between them again.   
  
Bull began to slow when they reached the bridge to the fortress. Everything around them was gray and still, the hazy calm before a storm blew in. It felt fitting for their return, the heaviness of the air and the blankness of the sky. He fell back among the others, everyone slowly passing him with those same apologetic looks, the cart that held Dorian rattling past and leaving the Bull bringing up the rear. Krem slowed with him, walking side-by-side with his commander. They moved in silence, Krem’s presence being some reassurance as they crossed into the place he had begun to call home, yet now it felt as cold and lifeless as Dorian’s gaze.

  
The advisers were gathered at the gates, all wearing tense expressions. They’d come to agreement about keeping this quiet until more came to light, knowing how uncomfortable Tranquils could make people, knowing how uncomfortable Dorian had made some people before this and fearing this could make it all worse. Bull watched as the Herald exchanged words with Cullen first. They were all sparing worried glances to the Bull, and the man sighed deeply.

  
“My condolences,” Cullen said stiffly as Bull passed through the gates after the cart, his hand meeting Bull’s shoulder for a moment. Leliana and Josephine nodded in agreement, the ambassador’s eyes wet and the spymaster showing a rare display of concern.

  
“Lady Pentaghast wished to speak with you, when you feel up to it,” Josephine finally choked out, tears threatening. Bull nodded his thanks before moving past them. He broke away from the group as the procession made its way to the Infirmary. His Chargers lingered around him, waiting for something. Bull seemed unaware of their presence until Krem spoke:

  
“Off to the tavern, the lot of you. I think we all could use a drink,” Krem ordered, waiving them away. There was a mumble of agreement before the rest of the Chargers made their way across the courtyard.

  
“I can’t…” Bull wheezed out, chest feeling tight, heart hammering in his ears. He could see the Inquisitor helping Dorian from the cart and looked away quickly. His mind flashed to all the places that reminded him of Dorian, leaving him with nowhere in Skyhold that wasn’t seeped in memories.

  
“Better to get it all out of the way,” Krem nodded compassionately, “Gonna hurt more later if you let this feeling build up.”

  
Bull blinked at his lieutenant, knowing he was right but having trouble swallowing down the surge of emotions.

  
“I’m sure you could use a strong drink,” Krem continued with a weak smile, “Get some of that Marass-Lok of yours out and drink yourself stupid for a bit.”

  
The larger man swallowed, glancing in the direction of the Infirmary for a moment. He opened his mouth to speak.

  
“Look, Chief,” Krem said sharply, “I know you’re kicking yourself right now. Dorian’s got people watching out for him. You need a break. Giving yourself some space for a night doesn’t mean you’ve given up on him.”

  
Bull looked startled for a moment, surprised at how perceptive Krem could be. He was grateful for the man, grateful that he knew how to handle the Bull and could be put together when he wasn’t. Able to give his first real smile in days and days, he smiled weakly at the man as he placed a hand on his shoulder.

  
“Thanks, Krem.”

  
“Someone’s gotta look out for you,” Krem shrugged, grabbing his arm to tug him towards the tavern. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope there was a little bit more of an indication of a light at the end of the tunnel in this chapter. A dim, far off one, though.


	9. Embers of Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being in his quarters without Dorian is painful, and Cole decides to pay a visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a short chapter to keep things moving!

The night is impossibly long, and cold, and lonely. Even with drinking until last call, the night feels like it lasts forever. Krem offered to bring his stash of wine up to Bull’s room, and Bull told him to go get some sleep. The air in his quarters above the bar, which Dorian has slowly begun to take over in the last months, feels stifling and heavy. There’s so much of Dorian packed into the space now, and there’s so little of Dorian left otherwise. There’s a stockpile of beauty products scattered across a dresser Dorian dragged in — mustache wax and soaps that smell of cinnamon and sandalwood and lavender and all sorts of lotions for every part of Dorian’s body. His extra pair of boots are strewn in the corner, and Bull tried to remember if they ended up there after another argument about things having their proper places. That made his chest tight, thinking how he wouldn’t have to worry about that anymore, and desperately wishing he would have another chance to go for a round of wits with Dorian.

  
Walking slowly across the room, Bull reached out for the blankets on the bed. There’s more than enough for him, Dorian insisting they needed _this_ one for the cold, and _this_ one because it matched, and _this_ one because it needed to be draped across the foot of the bed for the effect. Maevaris had sent one of them down, something in deep reds and bright golds and dark blacks that’s distinctly Tevinter —

  
_Mae_. Someone would have to tell Mae.

  
Bull wiped his hand across his face. There’d been a letter addressed to him not too long ago from Maevaris. Apparently, Dorian had wrote to Mae to give her all the messy details of their relationship. It’d be a relief to find out there was someone who cared for and watched out for Dorian before him, sponsoring some of his flee to the south. It turned out Mae was still just as dedicated to protecting the boy, knowing how much Dorian had struggled to get to this point in his life where he was happy and safe with someone. There’d been a number of vague threats that Bull understood loud and clear — Mae expected Bull to keep Dorian protected, to not let him get hurt, and to not hurt him too much if things didn’t work out between them. It was his responsibility to let her know, he decided. She could let his parents know, if she gave a shit to. Bull certainly wasn’t going to write to those fuckers — they might be too relieved that Dorian was somehow ‘fixed.’

  
A soft flutter startled Bull. He snatched up the blade he kept within reach, mind flashing to sneak attacks and ambushes while in Seheron, of red-eye Templars with Dorian’s blood wet on their already-red armor. Instead, he recognized the wide, glossy blue eyes and gaunt, pale face that was now inches from his own.

  
“Fuck, Cole,” he groaned as he plopped back onto the bed. He had been wondering — _dreading_ — when the spirit would finally make his appearance, with all the hurt going on within Bull.

  
“You’ve been so loud,” Cole whispered, voice hoarse,  and guilt bubbled up in Bull’s chest. The boy looks more wrecked than Bull’s seen him “I wanted to help, but I was worried I would make the tangle worse. It _hurts_ to listen to you.”

  
“Yeah, don’t know if you’ll be much help, kid,” Bull grunted, scrubbing at his eye. He’d been bracing for this ever since he returned to Skyhold, conflicted over hearing what Cole had to say. While the spirit’s words often stung at first, opening old wounds, they usually had a way of helping those wounds heal in time. This didn’t seem like the type of wound that could be healed, and Bull wasn’t sure if he _wanted_ it to heal. He never wanted to become accustom to the dead look in Dorian’s eyes, the lack of the fire burning behind his eyes — the lack of _anything_ left in Dorian, besides duty and efficiency and reason. It would be better to hurt, to feel the empty hole in his chest than to make himself forget how much he missed his Dorian.

  
“The man is a husk, hollow, impostor. Not _my_ Dorian anymore,” Cole murmurs, and Bull grunted again in confirmation, “But he still is your Dorian, the Iron Bull. Deep, dark, down. Cold darkness envelopes, a cold, dark sea of nothing, yet I’m still here.”

  
“What?” Bull asked dumbly, trying to grasp at the words, “You mean, Dorian’s … in there somewhere?”

  
Cole nodded vigorously, flaps of his hat fluttering, “Like a single lantern lit during a storm, wavering and flickering but determined not to be extinguished.”

  
Bull wasn’t sure if it hurt or helped more, emotions stirring together in his stomach. There was some relief, knowing that there was something left of the old Dorian within the Tranquil, giving him a flicker of hope of being able to pull that Dorian back to the surface. He had no clue _how_ , wasn’t too familiar with Tranquil. They were hidden away in the south, making people scared and uncomfortable, and mages who went renegade in the Qun were cut down efficiently. There was no cure they knew of for this — only the rumor of rumors. On the other side of the coin, it also hurt to know that Dorian was trapped and alone in some darkness, everything about him being forced down with the threat of being snuffed out. Condemning Dorian to a life of emptiness, thinking that Dorian was still aware of to know he was changed and chained, made Bull’s stomach lurch.

  
“Cole, does that mean there is a cure?” he ventured nervously.

  
Cole studied Bull for a moment, tilting his head and looking owlish, “I do know Dorian is not completely lost, so I would hold onto your hope. Cassandra wishes to speak with you. I hope I have helped.”

  
“I think you have, kid.”

  
Then, with a flutter and whisper of the Fade, the boy was gone again. Bull sunk into his pillows, the Orleasian ones that Dorian had insisted on getting, and poked at the ember of hope that had settled into his chest, willing it to grow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like Cole probably only shares information when it's especially loud, and he doesn't share information he knows won't be useful/can hurt more than help in certain situations even though he hears it all? I mean, I think sometimes he doesn't know what will hurt/help the most and can get carried away in especially painful/emotional/strong memories. But, when you talk to him if you sacrifice the Chargers (you monster), he says a bit more about what Krem thought before dying. But when he comforts Bull about it, he only says the "horns pointing up" part? In conclusion, Cole might know a bit more about Tranquility than he's revealing (based on my shallow understanding of what happens in Asunder) but doesn't think he can use that to help Bull right now??? (AKA what the heck am I doing, writing is hard)
> 
> SO, yeah, that was my rant about how great Cole is.


	10. Guilt and Reassurance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bull pays Dorian a visit in the infirmary and Vivienne comforts the Bull.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy moly, two chapters in a day??

A sudden gust of cold cutting through the drafty stone walls of Bull’s room stirred him from sleep. Habitually, he reached out to hook his arm around the warm body that was normally sprawled next to him. Instead, he grabbed at cold blankets, the remembrance of all that had happened jerking him from his half-slumber. He let out a groan of disappointment, pushing the covers away and scrambling from the bed. It had felt too-large, too-empty during the night. The smell of cinnamon and sweat, oils and sandalwood still dully mingled with the sheets, increasing the longing in his heart. He dressed, the ache in his chest and the ache in his knee from the traveling, from the lack of magically warmed hands to sooth away the pain at night, slowing him down.

  
Somewhat reluctant to face the world, to have to deal with more pitying looks and apologies, Bull forced himself to head outside. He knew Cassandra was waiting to speak with him, but he wasn’t ready for that conversation. It was still all rumors of rumors, the cure. He used the door to the battlements, avoiding the tavern that was always bustling with people drinking and eating. It’d been nearly sixteen hours since the Bull had last seen Dorian — it felt like much more. The last he knew, the former mage was still in the Infirmary, the healers working at the array of bruises and cuts and breaks the man had received.

  
When he arrived, healers were bustling to get morning meals to those well-enough to eat. They spared him lingering glances, one of them directing him to a bed near the end, and was mostly ignored. He paused outside the curtain to the space they indicated.

  
“Dorian?” he finally mustered up the courage to question.

  
“Yes,” the voice answered, as painfully empty as it had been the last time they spoke.

  
Bull hesitated for another moment before pulling the curtain back. Dorian was sitting up in bed, a tray of food before him, his chest bare. Bandages were wrapped around most of his chest and one arm, the bruises reduced in size, the cuts drawn together to puckered pink skin. There were dark circles under his eyes, one of the few things that indicated how drained Dorian’s body must be.

  
“You feeling alright?” Bull asked, then winced at his wording.

  
Dorian cocked his head slightly, processing, “They have done an efficient job at healing.”

  
Bull nodded, grateful that there was no discussion about Dorian’s lack of emotions. He’d overheard Dorian telling Stitches that he felt nothing once the healer had asked how he was feeling, the meaning somehow lost to Dorian’s now entirely logical mind.

  
“You had me worried,” Bull breathed out, keeping the distance between he and Dorian, “I’m glad they did their job.”

  
“My wounds were severe, “ Dorian acknowledged, “I understand why it would be concerning to you.”

  
Dorian remembered, faraway like the memory belonged to someone else, Bull meeting him at the gates, pulling him up into strong arms and murmuring how much he had been missed. He remembered being startled from sleep from nightmares, the Bull there to run gentle hands against his skin, holding him until the fears subsided. The feelings were no longer there, the memories empty, but he still could remember how much the Bull cared about him, how hard the Bull had always tried to make him feel safe and protected and wanted. It no longer filled him with pride or love, but instead a sense of appreciation for the man.

  
“Dorian…” Bull breathed out, taking a hesitant step forward. The man blinked at him, waiting patiently for the Bull to continue, “I…”

  
Bull swallowed, hard. He hated this Dorian, hated everything about the way his beautiful face was without emotional, the way he endured everything without a single complaint, the way nothing deeper or more meaningful laid behind his eyes. Bull stumbled forward, falling to his knees beside the bed and reaching out for Dorian, knocking the tray of food over with a clatter. He pressed his forehead against Dorian’s chest, careful as ever of his horns.

  
“I’m sorry. I am so sorry,” Bull gasped against his chest, tears running from his one eye to land against the bandages and bruised skin.

  
“You have done nothing to harm me,” Dorian answered, hand laying stiffly against the top of Bull’s head. It was an imitation of comforting gestures, and it felt false to the Bull. It only pulled another sob from the larger man. After long minutes of the Bull’s muffled cries of grief filling the healer’s, one of the mages peeked their head in.

  
“Ser Bull … I know this is a hard time, but…” the looked conflicted, sorry, “You’re upsetting some of the others.”

  
Bull pulled away, Dorian’s hand falling back onto the bed. He grunted, wiping at the tears, before pushing himself up to his feet.

  
“I’ll go,” Bull nodded, fleeing from the Infirmary. He wasn’t sure where he was headed, only that he needed to get away from there, away from Dorian. His mind buzzed with memories of the man, the memories feeling like shards of glass against his skin. It wasn’t until he was in one of the empty towers that he stopped moving, leaned heavily against the stone wall and tried to catch his breath. This spot was free of memories of Dorian, though he knew hundreds of reminders lay right outside the firmly closed door.  He turned to stare out the window, into the icy landscape around Skyhold, and try to harden himself to the stirring of emotions raging in his chest.

  
He wasn’t surprised when the door swung open, but the voice that came with him wasn’t anyone he had been expecting:

  
“My dear,” Vivienne sounded uncharacteristically soft. Her long fingers found Bull’s shoulder, gripping them firmly. He thought of his Tama, her presence pushing away the fear of demons and darkness, and Vivenne’s being there did much the same.

  
“Hey, Viv,” Bull answered weakly, a slightly warble to his voice. For once, the nickname didn’t get Bull scolded.

  
“While I do not know how much truth they hold, I have heard rumors of a cure for Tranquility in the last few years,” she began to explain, voice even and strong as ever, “I do not make any promises to finding such a cure, but I had hoped it would give you a small bit of comfort. I am familiar with the pain of losing someone you care about, my dear.”

  
Bull nodded, remembering hearing something about a man that Vivienne had loved. It wasn’t in any reports, but Bull was probably the most informed in Skyhold — after Lelianna and Varric, of course.

  
“I don’t know what to do, Ma’am,” the Bull admitted. The helplessness had been eating at him. There was always someone’s skulls to bash in, some pain he could kiss away, some way he could help to make the hurt go away. Now, the only answer he had was as painful as the problem, “Dorian wouldn’t want this…”

  
“You should ask him what he wants. He may be a Tranquil, but he is not mindless,” Vivienne advised, “Though, I would wait until you are a bit more stable.”

  
Vivienne stood with him until he finally turned away from the window, eye red and cheek tear-stained, but the tears had stopped. He nodded to the woman, reaching down to take her hand and gently kiss the back of her hand. She smiled before swatting him away.

  
“I do believe Cassandra has been expecting you for some time now,” Vivienne informed him, patting his cheek firmly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a little unsure how to approach Cassandra & Bull's conversation??


	11. Seeking a Cure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bull has a long-awaited talk with Cassandra.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, both to move this forward and get me back on track with this!

Cassandra was, as usual, hitting things with a sword in her little corner of the training yard. The training dummy looked to be on its last leg, and Bull watched as Cassandra efficiently cleaved its head from its body. He smiled slightly to himself, a weak and fleeting thing, always impressed by the Seeker’s ability. Then, a small surge of guilt burnt through his chest at allowing himself the small happiness. It was torture, ever surge of emotion and feeling reminding him that Dorian felt nothing now. He let out a low growl at the image of Dorian in his mind, broken and dead-eyed, and tried to force the thoughts down. Cassandra wanted him here for a reason, and hopefully that meant something promising. His mind ran over what she might have to say — he supposed that being a hand of the Divine and part of the power that kept Templars in check would mean she was more informed than most about Tranquility. People of power always had their secrets, those things they kept from the general masses to keep them where they wanted them.

  
“Hey, Seeker,” Bull said, trying to keep his voice level. The woman stopped swinging and turned abruptly, a slight sheen of sweat on her skin but not much other indication of hacking the dummy to bits being strenuous. Her eyes went a little wide, and Bull flinched, having had seen that look enough for a lifetime, “People keep saying you wanted to talk to me.”

  
“Yes, Bull, I …” she dropped her hands to her side, looking lost for a moment. She swallowed, looking back up, “You do not need my pity, but I am sorry.”

  
Bull nodded slightly. It was a better reaction that most, Josephine tripping over apologies and swallowing down tears the two times he ran into her since first encountering her at the gates, Cabot refusing to charge him for drinks. He didn’t need charity over this, he didn’t need to be treated like something that would easily break.

  
“Thanks, Cas,” Bull managed another smile, and then wondered if it looked more like a grimace from the look of concern of Cassandra’s face.  
“Before you get your hopes up, I do not know a cure,” Cassandra clarified, unsure what people had been telling the Bull. She looked vaguely apologetic, but it was all business with the Seeker, and that was another thing that Bull like about her. There wouldn’t be wasted time with her try to find the words to say to Bull.

  
“Yeah, I figured if you did I woulda seen you sooner.”

  
“However, before the Divine passed, we were searching for one. She began to believe that Tranquility was too harsh of a punishment and sought a way to rectify this,” Cassandra began to explain, sheathing her sword, “If anyone knows what the answer is, it will be the Seekers. She had been planning a meeting with the Lord Seeker for after the conclave. I had requested some time ago that the Inquisitor assist me in investigating their disappearance, and Dorian’s Tranquility has pushed the necessity of the trip higher on the list.”

  
Dorian’s Tranquility. The felt like a slap, smart and bitter. Everyone had been tiptoeing around saying the words - Dorian’s condition, Dorian’s illness. Another surge of appreciation for Cassandra flooded his system.

  
“You think they could know something?” Bull clarified, frowning, only having been half-listening as she finished her explanation. It made sense. Many Templars’ distrust of mages ran deep, ingrained in them that mages were dangerous and unpredictable and a ticking time bomb waiting to go off. Cullen had still winced away from some of Dorian’s simple spells, making Dorian more cautious about his casting around the man. It wouldn’t be a surprise if the Seekers knew more about Tranquility than they let on, Bull knowing how systems operated behind closed doors, keeping secrets to keep the masses safe and calm. He also knew getting his hopes up could be devastating, so he viewed this outcome as a slim possibility and wouldn’t linger on it.

  
“I do not know for sure, but I am hopeful,” Cassandra nodded, shifting on her feet slightly, “We have some leads on where the last of the Seekers and Lucius ended up, and perhaps they could give us some answers. It is the best hope we have. The Inquisitor has some business to attend to in Crestwood in the coming weeks, and we will extend our trip to reach Caer Oswin. However, it make be weeks, months before —”

  
“Thanks, Cass.”

  
Cassandra managed a small smile, reaching out to squeeze Bull’s arm, “Dorian is a good man. I was wrong to be wary of him at first. He has proved his loyalty time and again. I hope we can help him.”

  
Bull swallowed hard, the treat of tears stinging at his eye. It was enough that Cassandra had been thinking of how to fix Dorian in the first place. The woman was not upfront with emotions, hiding them behind severity and mild disgust, and the statement hit him hard in the chest. He wasn’t sure if he’d describe the two as more than comrades, even if the pair could debate good-naturedly about mage rights and religion for hours, and here she was, trying to help. Knowing his voice would betray him, he nodded, clapping her on the shoulder before turning away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, our Lady Seeker will be back in a handful of chapters! ;)  
> The next few chapters will probably be less linear and more important/emotional moments during Dorian's time as a Tranquil.


	12. Dark and Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian changes and Bull tries to cope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Dichotomous-dragon](http://dichotomous-dragon.tumblr.com/) for the beta! <3
> 
> I'll be writing NaNo stuff soon here, so I figured I should update this before than!

Bull still kept his visits with Dorian short, anything longer than a few exchanges of conversation too much. Each time, he would try to stay for a moment longer, then a moment longer, slowly forcing himself to become accustomed to this Dorian. Seeing this husk of Dorian and knowing that the old Dorian was hidden somewhere deep inside made Bull feel sick and hopeful all at once. He knew what it was to be lost in darkness for endless days, and knew it had to be even worse than that to be at the complete mercy of your own mind and body. He remembered endless days in the reeducation rooms, the only noise his own breath and the brush of his skin against the cold stone floor. Dorian had fought to be who he was, to stay who he was despite his father’s desperation and blood magic, and now Dorian was passive and dead-eyed when they talked in the infirmary, his own mine serving as his prison.

  
A shudder ran through him at the thought, imagining what Dorian’s life would have been like under the Qun, lips sewn shut, collared, mind deadened with qamek. It felt selfish of him, but he hoped that Dorian somehow knew and understood how hard it was for Bull to be there for him. It made his throat tight, his breath catch, to see him like this. Despite how much he still cared for Dorian it was impossible to exchange more than a few sentences before his thoughts ran wild and nausea bubbled up in his gut.

  
Dorian was released from the Infirmary after a week, the healers able to mend every last bruise and cut on his bronze skin. It was no surprise to Bull that the man returned to his alcove, settling among the stacks of tomes and half-burned candles. They had stacked the books on Tranquility they found on Dorian’s chair, knowing the man would be able to quickly pour over them for anything useful. It brought a bittersweet smile to his face, seeing him perched there. It was a familiar comfort, though set slightly off-kilter.

  
Little things about Dorian had already changed, slowly amounting to big things. His hair was no longer slicked up and precisely styled, falling in messy curls around his face. Stubble graced his cheeks, and while Bull had sometimes liked when the man had grown scruffy during their travels, liked the drag of it against his skin, it felt wrong now. Kohl no longer lined his eyes. There was no rings on his fingers, though Bull was startled to see the dragon tooth still around his neck. He didn’t have it in him to ask why.

  
Then, the man began to wear long, simple robes. No buckles, no flare, no flash of vivid patterning. It was all so tame, so unlike Dorian, but with everything Dorian slowly draining away from the man, Bull took no surprise in it. Slowly but surely, Bull’s Dorian was slipping between his fingers, fading farther and farther away.

  
“New robes?” Bull questioned as he moved close to the man settled in his chair, catching the rough fabric between his fingers. He frowned at it, the gray heap of cotton doing nothing for Dorian’s figure. No buckles, no flare, no flash of vivid patterning.

  
“Yes. These are traditional robes. They are more practical,” Dorian offered, not looking up from the book he was scanning over. Bull let out a long sigh, “It reduces the amount of time needed to get dressed in the mornings and allows me more time for research.”  
  
Then, days later, the mustache was gone and that almost broke the Bull completely. He gaped when he first saw, Dorian sitting in his alcove, face clean shaven, hair curling against his forehead. In a way, Bull had been glad when Dorian forewent styling his hair, the locks hiding the mark on his forehead. Sensing Bull’s gaze, the Tranquil looked up.

  
“Your mustache…” Bull muttered, chest feeling tight. Dorian didn’t look anything like himself now, the most distinguishable features about him gone. He was still beautiful,  and Bull was sure nothing could change that, but everything felt so very wrong and just looking at Dorian made his stomach form knots.

  
“It was impractical,” Dorian said. It had taken extra time to style, extra time to keep it neat and trimmed. It would be easier to just shave his entire face in one go. More efficient. Bull flinched, while Dorian simply blinked up at him, cold and unconcerned. Bull had left in a hurry then, headed to the tavern to drink until he was seeing double. It really felt like Dorian was gone, dead, and an impostor trying to take his place in the library.

  
“Look like you have a rough day,” Varric said as he sat down across from the Bull, in the seat that Dorian had often claimed. He knew better than to linger on those thoughts, knew that they would grow and expand into something dark and heavy on his chest. Bull gave a shake of the head, forcing the memories and answering Varric’s question all at once.

  
“Here, this round is on me,” Varric waved a barmaid over, ordering two ales. When he had visited Dorian in the Infirmary, he had used the name Sparkler once before dropping it entirely, it feeling strange and false for a man so unlike the Dorian he had known. It had made him impossibly sad, and he hadn’t even been swapping spit with the guy, “Though, you look like you could use more than just one round.”

  
“Whole bar might do it,” Bull joked dully.

  
Varric flashed him a knowing smile, “What better way to forget than to drink, right?”

  
After a few ales, Bull began to lose some of the tenseness in his shoulders. The hurt still lingered in his eye, but Varric thought the man might be a little easier to talk to now.

  
“Y’know what has helped me with Hawke?” Varric asked, taking a long swig of ale. Bull knew that Hawke being lost in the Fade had been awful for the dwarf, Hawke meaning almost as much to him as Bianca. Plus, there’d been all the letters to Hawke’s old crew, to the elf somewhere up north whose lover was ripped away from him. Bull felt a pang of sympathy, and wondered distantly if Maevaris received the letter about Dorian yet.

  
“What’s that?” Bull took the bait after a minute, leaning back and watching Varric carefully.

  
“Talking about him. Trading stories,” Varric nodded, looking a bit nostalgic for a moment, “It hurts, hurts like hell at times, but … It’d be a dishonor to just pretend he didn’t exist. Dorian’s too big of a light to let that be snuffed out.”

  
Bull blinked for a moment, a lump in his throat that he couldn’t quite swallow down. Dorian wasn’t gone, not completely, but Bull knew that grieving was sometimes necessary to move on, to cope. He took a long gulp of ale, which still didn’t do the trick to wash away the grief and guilt, and he resigned himself to the feeling welling in his chest. He nodded instead, choked out a weak ‘yeah’, and gestured for Varric to tell him something.

  
“So, did Sparkler tell you about the time he lost his boots in the muck of the Mire?” Varric questioned, wearing a gentle smile, knowing it was a night for simple, warming stories. Nothing of blood or battle, but gentle reminders of what Dorian had been.

  
As Bull listened, he could remember some pieces of the story. He’d been in the training yard when Dorian trudged through in a pair of boots two-sizes too big, squawking at the Chargers when they shot questions and comments in his direction. At some point, Sera leapt down from the level above, sitting close to Bull’s side. The Chargers wandered back tot he table, gathering around their leader, one person picking up on storytelling after another tapered off.

  
Before the end of the night, Bull had shed a handful of brief tears. It felt good to remember Dorian, to think back to the man laughing or drunkenly singing or even scowling. Bull had been trying to forget that any of it had happened, had tried not to think much of Dorian at all because fuck, it hurt. But even if it did, Bull knew this was better, needed whatever he could get of Dorian in his life.

**Author's Note:**

> Say hi, make suggestions, prompt me, talk about Adoribull on my Tumblr:  
> thekingofcarrotflower.tumblr.com/


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